


True North

by Delwin



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/pseuds/Delwin
Summary: …on compasses, relative direction, centers of gravity and Tom Paris…





	

**Author's Note:**

> Left as a gift under the tree for some amazingly talented fellow writers who have been a source of much appreciated support and inspiration over the last year…
> 
> The first of these three scenes occurs during the timeline I started to explore in A Space Between; hopefully this piece stands on its own (even if it wobbles a bit), but should it be intriguing enough to warrant further exploration of that small corner of the universe, more can be found in the earlier piece.
> 
> And, as always, many, many thanks to Photogirl1890 for all of her invaluable help and encouragement and for putting up with me through the creation of yet another fic.

 

" _The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas. So I confessed. Worst mistake I ever made but not my last."  
\- _ Tom Paris, 'Caretaker'

**True North**

.

.

**1.**  
" _There's no relative direction in the vastness of space. There's only yourself, your ship, your crew. It's easier than you think to get lost._ " Commodore Paris to James Kirk

The view has become familiar and, in its familiarity, comforting: the arc of the class K planet around which _Voyage_ r is in orbit; the dimmed brilliance of its dying white dwarf sun; the roiling pinks, purples and greens of the nebula gasses (Miral has been enthralled by the shifting colors for weeks now); the constant patterns of the more distant stars both within and beyond their sanctuary. Over the last two months, Tom has formed a habit of mentally tracing those patterns each time he's started a bridge shift, as, in childhood, he had followed the invisible lines of the Big Dipper and Orion's Belt in Earth's night sky.

Time to break that habit.

Giving the reports on the PADD in front of him one final glance, Tom rises from the captain's chair. Quelling the impulse to move left, he deliberately turns to his right to walk up the bridge ramp to where the so recently promoted Chief of Security stands at Tactical. Tom claps his friend on the shoulder – it's meant to be a light gesture but Tom finds himself holding on for an extra second.

"You have the bridge, Harry."

The younger man nods. "You're going to tell her we're ready?"

Tom nods in turn, fighting to keep his expression from turning grim. He knows that Nozawa at Ops will be stealing nervous glances over at the two senior officers.

Noticing the same, Harry bites back whatever he was going to say next, instead offering, "She's in Astrometrics."

With a word of thanks, Tom pulls open the doors to what had once been the starboard turbolift and swings himself down to the access ladder: seven decks and counting.

The motion-activated emergency lighting blinks on and he falls easily into the rhythm of the descent; it's been years since crawling down ladders became second nature. Miral clambers around _Voyager_ 's innards like she was born doing it. To her eight year old mind, Tom suspects, it gives the ship the character of the giant treehouse out of _The Swiss Family Robinson_. Frankly, watching the speed with which she attacks the ladders makes Tom endlessly grateful for the safety force fields that span the width of the cavernous tunnels every other deck - not that Miral has ever actually fallen, or at least not that she has reported to her parents.

The thought niggles at his mind: _**that's**_ _what you're worried about?_

Tom sighs as he pauses to deactivate, climb through and then wait to make sure that the force field between Decks 2 and 3 automatically reactivates after his passing.

The fact is that, for the last two months, as far as his progeny is concerned, a three meter fall is about the most that Tom's had to worry about. It's been a rare - and very much appreciated - luxury.

A luxury that is about to end in, well, about four more decks. Tom fights the urge to slow his pace: to delay the inevitable.

He passes through the next two force fields and finally exits at Deck 8, manually opening the turbolift doors, climbing out into the corridor and reclosing the doors behind him. He flips on his wrist lamp to augment the minimal illumination of the seldom used deck and then, with no little assertion of willpower, he turns and makes the short trip down the corridors to Astrometrics. Pausing to reset his features and posture, he resolutely pulls open the doors.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative brilliance of the starfield projected on Astrometric's main viewscreen but, when they do, he spies Kathryn Janeway staring, as she has done for much of the last two weeks, into the unknown.

When _Voyager_ had first limped into the nebula two months before, the first order of business had been survival: still bruised and deplenished from a half decade worth of Domari encounters, the ship and its crew had been licking its wounds from its most recent skirmish with the Borg as well. Once the repairs and resupply efforts were well underway, _Voyager_ 's captain had turned her attention to plotting their next move. Astrometrics had been powered back up, its advanced sensors sweeping the unknown space before them. Kathryn had insisted in sifting through the data those sensors collected herself - seeking something, anything that they could use to their advantage when they finally emerged from the nebula and resumed their race against the Borg.

The set of her shoulders as she grips the Astrometrics console, staring at those countless stars displayed on the massive screen, suggests that she hasn't found much.

"Captain?"

She turns at the sound of his voice and Tom immediately regrets that he hadn't…knocked? scuffled his feet? coughed?...done whatever to give his Captain a moment longer to compose herself.

"Mr. Paris?" Her voice is steady enough. "Is it time then?"

Tom nods. "B'Elanna reports that all systems are in full repair and that we've packed as much extra raw materials into Decks 4 and 5 as _Voyager_ is able to carry. _Harry_ ," he says his friend's name firmly, forcing himself not to verbally trip over it, "reports from Tactical that installation of both the ablative armor and the transphasic torpedos is complete and both are operational." Tom tries for a grin; he fails miserably. "We're as ready as we're going to be."

Kathryn acknowledges his report with a lift of her chin. Then she draws in a deep breath and turns back to the viewscreen. Her hands grip hard against the console's railing as her shoulders and head both subtly but perceptibly slump downward.

_Shit_.

Born and bred to command, Tom recognizes lack of resolution when he sees it. He's just never before seen it in the indomitable Kathryn Janeway.

Maybe - almost definitely - Chakotay has, years ago. Probably Tuvok as well. But Tom? Tom's job is - is supposed to be - to say 'yes, Ma'am' and fly the damn ship.

_I don't want this._

Tom wants to be able - needs to be able - to wake up tomorrow and rail against someone, anyone - the universe itself - for making this decision, a decision he would know, even as he ranted, to have been absolutely correct.

What he emphatically does not want is to become the Captain's counsel - to be the one to give her the nudge that she needs to send _Voyager_ back out into the unknown; to be directly responsible for the fact that Miral will be in infinitely more danger tomorrow than she is today.

What happened to all those cadets clamoring for command? Climbing over each other to be the first captain under the age of thirty? Tom would gladly hand off a couple of pips to any of them right now.

_I don't fucking want this._

He closes his eyes, his hands clenching into closed fists. He feels his left thumbnail press against the solid metal of the band encircling his ring finger.

Relaxing his hands, Tom reopens his eyes, takes and releases a long breath.

With two decisive strides, he moves forward alongside Kathryn. Leaning down, he rests his forearms on the rail, clasping his hands together. He turns his head to look steadily at his Captain.

"She's a good ship, Kathryn." At his still rare use of her first name, Kathryn looks over, her grey eyes meeting his. "She's got a good crew. And a good captain." This time, his grin is successful. "We're ready, Captain."

Her eyes hold his, seeking some assurance beyond his words. Tom forces himself to continue to hope she will find it. Finally, Kathryn grasps Tom's forearm in thanks and nods. They both straighten and Tom looks back up at the stars displayed before them. "So where to, Captain?" He indicates the screen. "Second star to the right?"

She follows his gaze, her voice once more steeled with resolution. "And straight on 'til morning, Mr. Paris."

Now he nods before together they turn to begin the climb back up to the bridge. It's time to take their ship back out into the unknown - and back toward home.

.

.

**2.**  
_"…and for a little while it became very difficult to remember which was really the north."_ The House at Pooh Corner, A.A. Milne

.

In the visual reference portion of the glossary of Tom's mind, this is 'home': settled into the decades old cedar swing on the hillside backyard of his parents' house, looking out upon the darkened, tree-covered Californian slopes and then up at the glistening stars stretching across the northern sky.

… _Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, Cepheus, Cassiopeia..._

The March night air is unusually crisp and Tom pulls the quilted blanket hastily grabbed from his childhood bed more snuggly around his sleeping daughter. Miral's cheeks are reddened and her face is sticky with a combination of dried tears, snot and drool. After an almost two hour struggle, the cool air and rhythmic movement of the swing had finally been the key to soothing the three-month-old to sleep.

He hears steps in the grass behind him and identifies the heavier tread that suggests his father over either his mother or B'Elanna. Tom turns slightly to his left, careful not to disturb Miral, and calls out a low greeting.

"Your mother said you were out here," Owen responds, his voice equally muted. "How's the little one?"

Owen's now close enough for Tom to see his father's sympathetic smile in the slight illumination offered by the lights from the house up the hill behind them. Crouching down, the older man softly strokes his granddaughter's back.

"Better now." Looking down at his daughter, Tom too smiles and then finds himself curious just how closely his own expression mirrors his father's. "Apparently, Klingons cut teeth in bunches. Efficient, as a friend of mine would say, but hell on the parents."

Owen chuckles and straightens up, his gaze still on the sleeping infant. His expression has turned wistful: how often, Tom wonders, had Commander-then-Captain Paris been allowed the time - or allowed himself the time - to rock his children to sleep?

With visible reluctance, Owen pulls his eyes away from his granddaughter. He glances back at the house. "Is B'Elanna asleep?"

Tom shakes his head. "She's on a conference call with Chapman and UP about the slipstream drive project that she's been consulting on." He purses his lips, considering. "They've been at it for over an hour now so B'Elanna and Chapman are likely deep into a…discussion…about the merits of benomite synthesis versus a dilithium reconstruction."

Owen nods but doesn't otherwise respond to Tom's quip, his eyes still focused somewhere in the darkness behind his son's head. Seeming to come to some decision, he straightens a touch and indicates the empty spot on the swing next to Tom. "May I sit?"

Watching his father's change of mood, Tom feels an adolescence worth of reflexive defenses springing up. But he nods, shifting slightly over to offer the other man more space.

Tom waits - anticipating what he's not sure - as Owen settles himself on the swing. But, once seated, Owen remains quiet, looking out at the hills and the stars. Tom follows his father's lead, willing the tension that has arisen in his jaw and shoulders to ease.

… _five stars for Cepheus, Cassiopeia's W, trace out the Big and Little Dippers_ …

"Thank you for coming out this weekend." Owen is still looking ahead. "It means a lot to your mother, I know, with Kath coming in from assignment: to have all her children back home together."

Tom nods and then, realizing that his father is unlikely to see the reaction, adds an auditory acknowledgement. Whatever the reason for his father following him out into the March night though, it had not been for the chance to thank Tom for a house visit.

Owen clears his throat and Tom again struggles to fight down the defensiveness that had become habit long ago.

Here it comes.

"Admiral Nechayev asked me to speak with you. To…encourage you to consider the proposal that Starfleet has put in front of you."

… _Draco the Dragon with its rhombic head curled around the little bear…_

"They want my name." It's meant to come out measured, reasonable, factual. Instead, Tom hears the bitterness in his own voice and regrets it: for once, he doesn't want to start a fight.

Neither, it seems, does Owen. The older man simply nods, absorbing his son's acerbity, still looking out at the sky. "They do - and the image of Lieutenant Paris at _Voyager_ 's helm, flying her out of the belly of that Borg orb and into sight of home." He clears his throat again. "Starfleet is hurting, Tom. They need to win back faith and trust, both by reminding people of their history and giving them a sense of hope for the future." He pauses, turning now to look at Tom. His expression is controlled: masked. "You would give them both. And," Owen turns back toward the darkness, "you would also give them a fine officer." Another pause. "That's me, speaking as an admiral."

Tom nods, swallows, takes a long breath. He puts a lifetime of practice into the attempt to keep his voice steady. It cracks anyway.

"And speaking as my father?"

Owen's pause this time is long enough that Tom turns his head - and immediately wishes he hadn't. "Dad…"

"No, Tom." The pain that Tom can see so plainly is echoed in Owen's voice. "I think I forfeited my right to speak as your father almost a decade ago."

It's the conversation that they haven't had - neither on the vid screen nor in person. A conversation that Tom has avoided as assiduously as Owen himself.

Miral whimpers against Tom's chest. He bounces her gently, patting her back rhythmically and making the low shushing sound that seems to soothe her so effectively. With a sleepy sigh, she settles back against him. Tom leans down to kiss the still soft ridges on her upturned brow before turning his eyes back up to the sky.

… _trace the tail of the little bear back to the North Star…_

Tom keeps his eyes on the stars as he begins, "In New Zealand…in Auckland…there was a yard that we were able to go out into at night." The swing creaks as Owen shifts uneasily. Tom pushes on. "It was on a north facing hillside, like this. I remember," Tom swallows, fights and succeeds this time in keeping his voice steady, "I remember going out into the yard that first night, wanting to see Earth's stars - to see these stars -" he gestures to the sky above them "- to gain some bearings." Tom chuckles ruefully. "I didn't figure in the change of latitude."

Owen lets out a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. Tom glances over to see the slightest of smiles vying with his father's pained expression. He shifts his eyes back away. "I was lost there for a while, Dad; long before I ever made it to the Delta Quadrant. I lost my compass - couldn't tell north from south or up from down." Tom breaths in the scent of Monterrey pines, listens to the whistling call of a nearby owl, feels the warmth of Miral's small body pressing against him. "It's good…to have finally found my way back home."

Beside him, Owen draws in a deep breath.

Tom feels hot tears stinging at his eyes. Steeling himself, he turns back toward his father.

"So, Dad, what would you say," and the tears begin to spill over, "speaking as my father?"

The stillness of the night stretches for a long minute and then Owen turns and reaches over - first gently cupping the back of his granddaughter's head and tracing the ridges on her brow. Then, with initial hesitance, he moves his hand up to the back of Tom's head, holding it there.

"As your father, Thomas: I am more proud than I could have imagined of the man you've become." Owen's cheeks are now also wet with tears. "A man who is better and wiser than his father has ever been."

His left arm still wrapped around Miral, Tom reaches his right hand up to grasp his father's forearm, holding on tightly, any words choking in his throat. Overhead, the stars continue their ancient dance across the sky.

.

.

**3.**  
_"...Well, finally... it isn't a matter of reason. Finally, it's a matter of love."_ Thomas More, A Man for All Seasons

.  
Your center of gravity has shifted - again.

You never would have described yourself as graceful - though Tom would and has on more than one occasion - but you've always taken an unspoken pride in the effortlessness ('efficiency' is also not a word you'd choose) of your movements. In the often close confines of Engineering, the ability to dodge a crewman or skirt a piece of equipment without breaking stride has its advantages.

Had its advantages. Until you started moving for two.

So, with little grace or otherwise - and with an audible grunt - you lower yourself down onto one end of the sofa. From the other end, Tom looks up from his PADD, startled. "Sorry - I didn't notice you come in."

"I gathered that." Looking down, you weigh the costs of the effort involved in attempting to bend at the waist versus the benefits of relieving your feet from the confines of your boots and ultimately decide to remain shod for now. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I was working on…" Tom's voice trails off as he lets the PADD fall to his lap, gesturing to the screen before leaning back, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. You don't look at the open document of the screen; there's no need. You'd seen his lower lip clenched between his teeth as you approached the sofa, the deepened lines across his brow. And you'd started your own version of the same letter in Engineering before giving up and heading home.

Instead you ask, "Have you slept at all?"

Tom shakes his head, no. You do a quick calculation: thirty-six hours since he'd volunteered his piloting skills to the away mission - and argued to keep you off of it. In those thirty-six hours, Tom had delivered a child into the world with his own hands and used his skills and knowledge to convince its tiny heart to begin beating. And then, for good measure, he had fought to save a civilization from extinction.

But, when his eyes finally close, all he'll see will be crashing shuttles, burnt and bloodied bodies, a subterranean laboratory and Durst's ripped and stolen face, slaughtered children on the fields of Tarakis - and Joe Carey.

One more nightmare to add to the list.

Running his fingers back through his hair, Tom lets out a long breath and then tosses the PADD onto the glass-topped coffee table. He turns, eyes focusing on you for the first time. "How are you doing?"

An impossible question to answer two-thirds of the way through a pregnancy and running a now yet more short-staffed engine room on the wrong side of the galaxy.

"My feet are swelling again."

As hoped, he grins, " _That_ I can do something about," and leans down to remove your boots before pulling your feet up into his lap - slowly, giving time for you to ponderously turn your body. He stretches a long arm across the sofa to prop a pillow behind your back. "Better?"

"You're too good to me."

His fingers work skillfully and methodically across the tension points in your feet and calves. (You had once suggested he should try practicing Chopin with those fingers; that night, he'd been more than happy to prove that he had a half dozen better uses for them.) He's back to chewing on the inside of his lip though, and his brow is again lined as his eyes steal back to the still active PADD. You wait: patience, such as it is, has been a late coming and hard won virtue.

"It was senseless: Joe's death."

Senseless, irrational, the act of a single man pushed past the point of reason. It had been Tom himself who had recognized all of that - had based his argument to the Captain upon it - had saved a world and the lives of thousands with that argument.

But it's a single life - and that single senseless death - that will haunt him.

A tiny foot kicks hard into your diaphragm. You gasp reflexively and Tom looks up in concern. With a half-smile of apology, you reach to guide his hand to the top of your abdomen so that he can share in the show your suddenly very awake daughter is putting on.

His awed reaction has become familiar but that takes away none of the impact of his delighted expression. But, too soon, the corners of his mouth fall as his eyes are drawn yet again to the PADD on the table.

"What is it?"

He shrugs in something between anger and frustration. "All the fuck ups, the wrong turns, the endless mistakes - and I get you. Both of you." He looks back to meet your eyes. "How does _that_ make any sense?"

You hold his gaze and you see the boy who grew up reading tales of heroes and knights, who still plays in a world of black and white fantasy where the good guy always wins. Your mother, you think, would have liked this blue-eyed husband of yours.

The baby kicks again, connecting squarely with Tom's hand. "Ouch." He winces in sympathy even as he again smiles, pulled back from his dark mood by the child that you've somehow created together. You consider, not for the first time, that the simple biological odds stacked against her conception might well be the least improbable aspect of this child's existence.

_All the fucks ups, the wrong turns, the endless mistakes and I get you – and you get me._

You place a hand on top of Tom's, your fingers brushing against the edge of his wedding band. "Maybe it doesn't make sense. Maybe it was never supposed to."

You stay on the sofa with him, eventually sliding over so you are resting against his chest, his right arm wrapped around you and his hand lying along the curve of your daughter's back. You watch a half-dozen episodes of some absurd television series that Tom terms a 'space western' but mostly you wait for the inevitable moment when Tom's eyes finally flutter closed. On the television, a saucer-shaped vessel speeds its way across an endlessly repeating star field; the effect is oddly soothing. Shifting so that your abdomen is better supported against sofa cushions, you let your own eyes close as well: whatever the coming night might bring, you'll navigate through it together.


End file.
